iJoy
by ButterflyRae
Summary: Her breathing pattern is markedly different and every so often the smallest and most deafening moan inadvertently escapes her open lips . . . The story of the world's stupidest love triangle. Seddie & SamOC, but the C doesn't stand for "character" .
1. The OC

**Author's Note:** This was going to be a oneshot but I got lazy and decided that I'd break it up into a 2 or 3 very short chapters so that I don't have to write it all at once. Things are quite busy and I'm going on vacation soon so I figured that this would be the best way to go.

* * *

It's raining outside again and things start out the same as every other afternoon in the Shay apartment. Correction, the same as every other afternoon for the last two weeks. Sometimes it seems like it's been going on so frikkin' long that I forget that this only started on Carly's birthday . . .

Anyways, I walk in the apartment to find Carly sitting at the kitchen counter eating fruit on stick.

"She upstairs already?" I scowl.

"Where else?" Carly smiles, as if she thinks that the whole thing is funny.

It's not.

We both know what's going on up there. I can picture it vividly without even trying . . .

There she is, sprawled on her back, a blissful look coloring her face. Her breathing pattern is markedly different and every so often the smallest and most deafening moan inadvertently escapes her open lips. Her hands are clenched and occasionally she'll arch her spine, moving into the motion for maximal effect . . .

Unable to halt the images of her, I kick the side of the couch in anger and pull my foot back in pain.

And Carly has the nerve to laugh.

"Don't you think that the whole thing is . . . is . . ." I angrily sputter, trying to settle upon the right word. A number of possibilities cross my mind, including insane, infuriating, and obscene. " . . . unhealthy!"

Carly just raises an amused eyebrow and shrugs her shoulders slightly.

"It makes her happy," she says casually, as if that completely justifies Sam's behavior.

But as far as I'm concerned, there is no justification for what has been going on. Every afternoon is exactly the same. She's spent hours a day for the past two weeks wrapped in the arms of that . . . that . . . that thing!

The iJoy-300 Massage Chair with Human Touch technology.

And it's driving me nuts.


	2. Love, American Style

**Author's Note:** Thanks for all the lovely reviews guys! Sorry I haven't had time to reply to them individually; I really do appreciate them. As a few of you figured out, describing this as SamOC was a really terrible joke on my part. The OC, of course, stands for "other chair." ;-) And speaking of which, the chapter titles will all be the names of mediocre TV shows . . .

* * *

It was supposed to be a present for Carly. A nice, tame birthday present sent by her granddad from Yakima. Carly had no idea what she was starting when she offered us each a turn . . . I still haven't really gotten mine.

From the moment Sam sat down in it, I knew that we'd have a problem. Her reaction was just . . . different from Carly's.

"This feels soooo good!" she practically moaned. "Carls, this is the best present ever." She closed her eyes in contentment, gripping the arms of the chair and pushing herself further back into it. A small sigh escaped her lips and Carly let out a laugh.

I wasn't completely sure why at the time, but something about it rubbed me the wrong the way . . . And after hours of waiting patiently for my turn, it started to piss me off.

"Come on, Sam," I finally said. "You've been sitting there for three hours!"

"And your point?" she smirked, making no movement to get up.

"This isn't fair!" I yelled. "Other people are waiting."

"Again, your point?" she said lazily, leaning back and sighing contentedly.

"Carly, make her get up!" I yelled, becoming more and more angry.

"Aw, quite your whining, Benson," Sam said.

"Sam, don't you think—" Carly began.

"No," Sam cut her off.

"Sorry, Freddie," Carly shrugged.

Groaning, I ran my hands through my hair in frustration. She had to get up sometime.

* * *

And she did. To use the bathroom, go to school, and do the web show. Once I actually sat in the thing for almost a whole minute before nearly getting my arm ripped off . . . As it happened, she did rip my shirt, which was almost as bad. After a thirty-minute lecture on how "keeping your shirts ironed and clean turns frowns into smiles and drives off the mean," I decided that it just wasn't worth it. She could keep her herJoy.

And yet . . . Watching her sit in it, seeing various expressions of contentment flit across her face, hearing the tiny noises that occasionally escaped her lips . . . It was . . . unpleasant.

I wasn't sure exactly why, but for some reason I thought it would be a good idea to make her angry. As if doing that would somehow solve things . . . One day after school I proudly marched up to her and told her that I'd posted that picture of her goofily hugging a costumed character from "Boogie Bear on Ice" that my mom had taken a few months ago.

"It's now displayed prominently on the iCarly website," I smirked, crossing my arms and looking down at her in satisfaction.

"Oh, you'll pay for this, Fredwina," she said, but bizarrely, didn't make a move.

"Aren't you going to hurt, me?" I asked, confused.

"Yeah," she said, looking up at me in amusement, "but what's your rush?"

"Just . . . just . . . forget about it!" I yelled in frustration and stormed out of the studio.

Unfortunately she didn't. The next day in school she surprised me in the hallway. I won't get into what happened after that, but suffice it to say that, after my mother saw me that afternoon, it was time for a mayonnaise shampoo.

* * *

A few days later, I was prepping some equipment for our next webcast. Sam was being particularly loud and each little noise from her direction seemed to fuel my desire to get her out of that thing. Even if just for a little while.

"So," I said, trying to sound casual. "I was thinking that, after I finish this, I might head down to Gallini's for some pie. Do you wanna to come?"

"Nah, that's okay," she said.

At that moment, George the Bra could have taken me in a fight. Sam Puckett was refusing pie.

"I would, um, buy it for you," I offered, unsure if she understood what I was suggesting.

"Gee wilikers, Fredwald, that just changes everything since I totally thought that _I_ might pay for my own food," she said, rolling her eyes. "Just pick some up for me, okay?"

"Sam, I'm not a delivery service," I said, my voice taking on a tinge of anger.

"What's the big deal, Fredweirdo?" she said, looking at me like she had no idea why I was angry. "You're going there anyways, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I guess," I said, trying my best to control my frustration.

What was I supposed to say? That I actually just suggested it hoping that I could take her there?

That didn't sound right.

That the expression on her face and the sounds she was making were driving me crazy and this was just a lame attempt to make it stop?

That also didn't sound wonderful.

In other words, I brought Sam Puckett some pie.

* * *

After that incident I tried to just tune it out . . . It simply told myself that I was making too much of it and there was no reason to get worked up over her bizarre attachment to that thing.

It almost worked.

Almost.

Then the dreams started.

* * *

In my dreams, it always went down the same way. It would be storming outside and I would go up to the iCarly studio to find her sitting in it. Sitting in it, gasping, and moaning. Without a word, I would approach her, grab her, and effortlessly toss her onto a beanbag chair.

And then I'd whip it out.

A giant sledge hammer. Like the one that Spencer used to crush things.

And silently, I would begin to hit it. Slamming the iJoy harder and harder, over and over again.

And all the while she would continue to moan, the sound getting louder and more intense as I continued to swing the hammer.

Sometimes she would scream or cry and I would tremble with a maniacal pleasure.

Finally, the chair would explode in a tremendous burst.

Then I would wake up gasping and in a cold sweat.

A wave of guilt would wash over me for having such violent thoughts and I would tell myself that it didn't mean anything. And yet, I would have a hell of a time falling back asleep . . .

I knew that this couldn't go on. Not if I ever wanted to get a peaceful night's sleep again.


	3. Three's Company

**Author's Note:** After Freddie's explanation of the situation, we return to where the story began in chapter 1 . . .

* * *

That afternoon is the first time that I mention it to Carly.

The fact that overuse of massage chairs can lead to poor posture and scoliosis.

"I think that Sam can handle the danger," she smiles, looking amused.

"Yeah, well, you may be all right with it," I say becoming angry, "but I'm not."

"Of course you're not, Freddie," she says, trying and failing to stifle a laugh.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" I ask, rapidly losing what little cool I had to start with.

"Freddie," she says gently, putting her hands on my shoulders. "You're jealous."

"Hah!" I scoff, crossing my arms and stepping back from her. "You couldn't make me sit in that thing if you tried."

"No," she says, giving me an amused look. "You're jealous of _the chair_."

It's the most ridiculous thing that I've ever heard and completely out of left field.

"That's crazy!" I say, shooting Carly a warning look.

"Yeah, it kind of is," she smiles at me in amusement.

"You're no help at all," I scowl, running my fingers through my hair in frustration. "I'm going to talk to Sam."

I have no idea what I'm going to say or do, but Sam Puckett _is_ getting out of that chair.

I just . . . refuse to let her mess up her back!

* * *

And there she is, just like I imagined her, sitting in that thing. Her eyes are closed and her lips are open, turned upward in contentment. As I enter the studio, I hear her breath hitch and she lets out a soft moan.

I think of the difficult nights that sound has caused me and I feel my blood start to boil.

I'm angry at her and I still can't explain exactly why. But at this point, I don't care.

"Sam!" I say loudly, storming over to her. "Get the hell out of that thing!"

"What's got your panties in a bunch, Benson?" she says, looking surprised and perturbed.

"I said get out of that thing!" I repeat, ignoring the angry expression that's forming on her face. The time for reasoning is over.

"Not gonna happen!" she says, angrily, not budging an inch.

"I'm warning you, Sam, get up or else!" I yell, telling myself that she'll one day thank me for preventing curvature of the spine. By this time I'm practically on top of her. I'm standing over her legs and angrily looking down at her.

"Oh, now I'm just quaking, Fredward," she says defiantly, smirking up at me. "What exactly are you gonna do?" Her shoulders roll, her breath inadvertently hitches again, and something inside me just snaps.

My arms come down on the arms of the iJoy and I'm completely straddling her. Before I have time to think to think about what I'm doing, my lips are crashing against hers and my tongue is pushing through her open lips . . . It's violent, frantic, and completely unlike anything that I've ever done before. And I realize with a start that I've wanted to do it from the moment she sat down in the thing.

I'm shocked when I feel her arms snake around me and she doesn't push me off. Instead, she pulls me _toward_ her, forcing my whole body against hers and frantically running her fingers through my hair. I can feel her moving and rubbing against me and thank god that I no longer wear that scratchy anti-bacterial underwear. I am about to completely lose myself in the moment when I feel her moan into my mouth. And then a crazy question enters my mind.

Was it me or the chair?

With massive effort, I wrench myself away from her and take several steps backward.

A look of horror forms on her face and at first I think she's angry about what we've just done.

"Where the hell do you think you're going, dorkwad?" she says, breathing hard and motioning that she wants me to come back.

I laugh in surprise.

"Get out of the chair, Sam," I smirk and she glares at me in anger.

"You get back in it!" she says.

"Yeah, I don't think so," I continue to smirk, crossing my arms over my chest.

A moment of silence passes as she sits there fuming and glaring at me.

And then it happens. Sam Puckett gets up.

And suddenly she's pressed up against me again, kissing me more intensely than I thought was possible. I run my fingers through her hair and down her back, feeling like my body can't be close enough to hers. I'm vaguely aware that we're stumbling around the room as we kiss. Then I feel her bite my bottom lip and lose all traces of awareness of anything besides her body. Somehow she maneuvers us into a reclining position, and this time, she's straddling me. She grips my hair with one hand and undoes the first button on my shirt with the other, all the while continuing to kiss me and rubbing my back in slow circles . . .

And then the utter impossibility of that hits me, quickly followed by a wave of anger as I realize that she's not rubbing my back at all.

I'm sitting in the iJoy-300.

"Guess you finally got your turn," she smirks, biting my lip again.

And I can't figure out of if I've lost or won. It's infuriating and sexy and ridiculous all at the same time. And I can't help it. I laugh.


End file.
